Lost Days: The Older I Get, The Further I Travel

There are days when I fly in and out of Australia.

On those days, I fill out the customs declaration forms and navigate the airport and then the city/the fam/the itinerary. Or on the occasions of me flying back to Melbourne, I’d immediately go to the office, work, have a gossip lunch with my fave colleagues, come home, shower, and unpack. Or, if I am lucky or dumb enough not to maximize my annual leave by having more than 24 free hours post-trip, those days will be filled by staying horizontal watching a horror movie I paid $3.99 for on YouTube and quickly snatching the Uber paper bag on my front door, in my PJs like a brown Gholum, braless. Essentially not adulting for a whole day.

But then I recently realized that after a few days, I couldn’t recall what happened on those days.

What did I do? How did I board and find my way outside of the airport? What did I eat? What did I say to the immigration officer, taxi driver, or my colleagues? What did I wear? Who paid for my coffee? What time did I finally reach home? Most minute Information becomes blurred or convoluted.

I coined them as my Lost Days. Those days are my lost days. And the older I get, and the further I travel, I have more prominent lost days.

I can’t remember what I did last Saturday, the day we returned from London. And it was only a week ago. I can only hope my soul retains some information when my brain and body go into survival mode.

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